I just got out of the bathroom, plucking another fistful of grey hairs.

Shut up, I know. They just grow back in an army of little silver spikes, intent on total scalp domination.

And yet I pluck. It’s what you do when you’re 43, which is what I am, as of today.

I now join the ranks of other 43-year-old women who haven’t exactly taken the world by storm – Shannen Doherty, Denise Richards, Debbie (now the more stately Deborah) Gibson.

Mind you, the 43-year-old guys are still ruling the school – Jon Hamm, Matt Damon, Mark Wahlberg (who has long since left Marky Mark and his Calvins behind).

But the 43-year-old women…hmmm…not as strong a showing. I can’t speak for how well Wendy Whoppers is holding up (an aging porn star, according to my handy “celebrities who are 43” list), but I don’t hear a whole lot from Claudia Schiffer anymore.

Even so, I doubt anyone’s ever offered her a senior discount.

Now, you may have heard this story before. (All my friends pretty much have.) But hey, old people repeat themselves a lot. 

Back when I was a sprightly 42, I went treasure hunting at Goodwill. I’d hoped for a little pick-me-up, the kind that comes from unearthing a stain-free J. Crew rollneck sweater just your size.

But know this: nothing brings you crashing back down to earth like the check-out lady inquiring in all helpfulness, “Do you qualify for our senior discount?”

(Let me be clear. I was NOT buying girdles or Maeve Binchy novels at the time.)

All I could do was stare at the woman.  Mouth agape. Eyes squinty.

And I hung on for the laugh. Surely, there had to be a joke in there somewhere. Surely.

Instead, she offered this qualification: “Our discount applies to people 55 and over.” Oh, well then, that makes everything better.

I squinted harder. My mouth hung slack. And I waited for her to cast her eyes upon my dewy complexion and blush hotly at her mistake.

Not to be unkind, but perhaps there’s a reason this woman worked at Goodwill. Clearly she was not one for making wise life choices, because she had the gall to ask me again, kind of snotty this time:  “Well, do you?”

Being old and slow-witted, all I could muster was a haughty laugh and (perhaps a little too long and loud) an indignant, “Nooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!”

It’s a good thing for her that I’m a lover, not a fighter…and that I have very little upper body strength for strangling.

Because, man, that’ll set you back.

You’re walking around thinking, I’m young. With it. Quasi-hip. I may have two kids and a station wagon and spider veins, but I’m still pulling it off. Sort of.

Then you have that soul-crushing moment when you discover you’re not 25 anymore. And that nobody my age says “hip” much — unless they’re joking about breaking one.

The thing is, I don’t want to be 25. I am perfectly content here at 43 – right along with my friends, Sarah Silverman and Melissa McCarthy.

I’m just not quite ready to share that 55-year-old senior discount with Jamie Lee Curtis. Or her Activia, for that matter.

There’s plenty of time for all that.

Twelve years to be exact, not that I’m counting.